


from the passenger seat

by quoth_the_ravenclaw



Category: Haikyuu!!
Genre: Driving, Graduation, Haikyuu!! Manga Spoilers, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-31
Updated: 2020-12-31
Packaged: 2021-03-10 23:14:04
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,208
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28461459
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/quoth_the_ravenclaw/pseuds/quoth_the_ravenclaw
Summary: Sometimes they drive into Sendai, sometimes to the pet store where Hanamaki works weekends, sometimes they drive nowhere at all, taking whatever winding mountain path strikes Oikawa’s fancy. Iwaizumi finds he doesn’t much care what the destination is. Instead, he focuses on the dull hum of the engine, the way the leather upholstery sticks to the back of his arms, the slopes of Oikawa’s face painted pale gold in the fading twilight.-A study in growing up and growing apart, seen from the passenger side window.
Relationships: Iwaizumi Hajime & Oikawa Tooru, Iwaizumi Hajime/Oikawa Tooru
Comments: 1
Kudos: 11





	from the passenger seat

**Author's Note:**

> "is it common for teenagers to own cars in japan? or like? drive?" you ask. "no!" i tell you, "but see if that will stop my brain's obsession with the liminal feeling of sitting in the passenger seat on a long drive with the windows rolled down and no destination!"

  
  
  


When Oikawa turns eighteen, his parents buy him a car. 

Iwaizumi rolls his eyes when he tries to gloat about it. “They’re just buying your love.”

Oikawa bats his eyelashes. “Who wouldn’t want to be loved by me, Iwa-chan?”

Unfortunately, he’s not wrong.

*

“I’m just saying, it’s a dumb gift,” Iwaizumi grumbles as Oikawa pulls into his driveway. (He lives two blocks away. It’s _completely unnecessary_.) “Where will you even drive it?” The only place Oikawa goes other than school is practice. Iwaizumi knows, because he goes where Oikawa goes.

“Silly Iwa-chan! I’m not going to drive in it,” Oikawa says, as though this is obvious and Iwaizumi is an idiot for thinking otherwise. “I’m going to make out with girls in it.”

Iwaizumi, showing much restraint, does not run Oikawa over with his own car.

*

Despite his words, Oikawa’s car never sees a single girl. 

What it does see a lot of: sweaty gym bags, milk bread, Iwaizumi.

*

They make it a habit. After Saturday practices, Iwaizumi follows Oikawa home the same way he has every Saturday for the past ten years. They’ll throw their gym bags in the back seat, get in, and drive.

Sometimes they drive into Sendai, sometimes to the pet store where Hanamaki works weekends, sometimes they drive nowhere at all, taking whatever winding mountain path strikes Oikawa’s fancy. Iwaizumi finds he doesn’t much care what the destination is. Instead, he focuses on the dull hum of the engine, the way the leather upholstery sticks to the back of his arms, the slopes of Oikawa’s face painted pale gold in the fading twilight.

*

During one of their drives, Iwaizumi wins an alien bobble head out of an arcade crane machine. Oikawa looks so genuinely touched when Iwaizumi gives it to him that he has to look away against the sudden roiling in his stomach. The bobblehead takes up a permanent residence on Oikawa’s dashboard. He names it Scully.

*

Oikawa is a surprisingly good driver. Iwaizumi makes the mistake of admitting this to him one day.

“Of course I am,” Oikawa says. “Don’t you know I’m good at everything?” and then, “ _Ow, ow, no hitting the driver!_ ”

*

“We’re going to a drive in!” Oikawa tells him, bobbing his head in excitement. On the dashboard, Scully echoes his movements.

“Uh, okay,” Iwaizumi says. He doesn’t really get what’s so exciting about driving to a rest stop, but he stopped questioning Oikawa’s weirdness years ago.

“A western drive in,” Oikawa huffs, as though this should be obvious. “You know, the kind where they play movies and have popcorn.”

Iwaizumi doesn’t know, but there’s no point resisting Oikawa once he’s set his mind to something, so he nods along anyways. Scully nods too.

*

The drive in ends up being an old, converted parking lot, sandwiched between two buildings with a large screen set up on the far end. When they pull in, Oikawa pays for them both, slapping Iwaizumi’s hand when he tries to reach for his wallet. For revenge, Iwaizumi buys their snacks. (It’s not much revenge, he thinks, as Oikawa beams up at him over their shared popcorn.)

They park. Iwaizumi tunes the radio to the proper station while Oikawa transforms the car into a nest of blankets and pillows.

It’s a Godzilla double feature. Something twinges in Iwaizumi’s chest when he realizes. He sometimes forgets that after all these years, Oikawa knows him just as well as he knows Oikawa.

Oikawa falls asleep on his shoulder a third of the way through the second film, half-eaten milk bread in his lap and drool on the corner of his mouth. Iwaizumi rolls his eyes but throws an arm around him and sinks lower in his seat. It isn’t until the scream of the supporting actress crackles through the radio that Iwaizumi realizes he hasn’t been paying attention to the movie, but the play of lights on Oikawa’s cheekbone.

At the noise, Oikawa rouses, letting out a sleepy murmur and nuzzling into the soft fabric of Iwaizumi’s sweatshirt before finally blinking open his eyes to meet Iwaizumi’s gaze. 

There’s a second - just a second - where Oikawa’s still soft and pliant from sleep, looking up at Iwaizumi so sweetly and giving him the smallest, easiest smile he has (the one he never shows anyone else), and Iwaizumi’s breath catches in the back of his throat. 

Another garbled scream blares through the speakers, and the moment is lost. Oikawa is back to full awareness, and his smile turns to a smirk.

“What’s this?” Oikawa sing-songs. “Were you watching me sleep, Iwa-chan? Captivated by my beauty even in slumber? Maybe you were going to wake me with a k-”

“You’re drooling.”

Oikawa gasps in affront at the accusation, then slaps a hand over his face and whines when he finds it true.

“What did I miss?” Oikawa asks after wiping his face all over Iwaizumi’s sleeve ( _jerk_ ), and Iwaizumi realizes he can’t answer because he wasn’t paying attention to the movie either.

“I’m not telling you,” he says. He hopes Oikawa doesn’t call him on his bluff.

“Not fair!” Oikawa cries. “I need to know what’s going on.”

“Then pay attention next time, dumbass.”

“It’s not my fault you make such a good pillow,” Oikawa says, snaking an arm around Iwaizumi’s neck and wriggling up close to him as if to demonstrate his point.

Iwaizumi rolls his eyes, but he smiles through the rest of the movie.

*

Time doesn’t seem to pass the same way when they’re driving, like the little world they’ve created behind the safety of the dashboard isn’t bound by the laws of the universe. Hours pass in what feels like minutes; minutes stretch out into eternities.

The roads are ever changing, as is the music that crackles, all static and bass, from the radio. The one constant is the warmth of Oikawa beside him.

*

Iwaizumi is woken up early one Saturday morning by the blow of Oikawa’s horn outside his window.

He considers ignoring it, but a moment later it's blaring again, loud enough to wake the whole neighborhood.

“What do you want, Shittykawa?” He shouts as he throws his window open.

“Good morning to you too, Iwa-chan!”

“We’re on break. Why are you waking me up at -” Iwaizumi pauses to glare at the alarm clock on his nightstand, “- six thirty in the morning?”

“We’re taking Takeru to a volleyball tournament,” Oikawa says, and no sooner are the words out of his mouth than the smaller (and infinitely less obnoxious) Oikawa is bursting out of the passenger seat.

“Let’s go, let’s go!” Takeru shouts, bouncing with the endless energy only an eight year old can possess.

Iwaizumi grunts, but throws on fresh clothes anyways and meets them outside five minutes later. He is greeted immediately by the excitable body of a child flinging itself at him. Iwaizumi is well versed in Oikawa antics of all kinds, though, and seamlessly catches the boy, swinging him over his shoulder and spinning him around, smiling at the raucous laughter.

When Iwaizumi sets him down, he catches Oikawa smiling too, that small, gentle smile he had at the drive in, the one reserved for Iwaizumi alone.

“Come on, we’re gonna be late!” Takeru says. He grabs Iwaizumi by the wrist and leads him over to the car.

“Yeah, yeah, I'm coming,” Iwaizumi says. He and Oikawa are both still smiling.

*

After the tournament (Takeru’s team makes it to the finals but loses out to a team with a setter-spiker duo that gives Iwaizumi deja vu to his own grade school days), they drive to an ice cream parlor and order the largest cones they can to celebrate a job well done.

“Can I get sprinkles and chocolate on mine?” Takeru asks.

“What am I, made of money?” Oikawa says.

“Tooru,” Takeru whines, giving Oikawa the same baleful puppy eyes Oikawa uses on Iwaizumi whenever he wants something.

Oikawa crumples immediately, forking over the extra yen. Serves him right, Iwaizumi thinks with no small amount of satisfaction. It’s about time he got a taste of his own medicine.

“I suppose your favorite uncle can spare no expense,” Oikawa says.

Takeru’s brow furrows. “You're not my favorite uncle.”

Oikawa chokes on his own ice cream cone. “What do you mean? I'm your only uncle!”

“Uncle Hajime is my favorite,” Takeru says matter of factly.

“That's it! No sprinkles for you!” 

“Don't listen to him. I'll get you sprinkles,” Iwaizumi says, if only for Oikawa’s squeal of betrayal. Takeru gives him a high five.

*

“You know he’s not really your uncle, right?” Oikawa says as they’re driving home. “Iwa-chan and I may spend a lot of time together, but we're not actually brothers.”

“I know that,” Takeru says in a petulant know-it-all tone he obviously inherited from Oikawa. “I don't call him Uncle Hajime because you're brothers, I call him Uncle Hajime because you're practically married.”

Oikawa goes still in the passenger seat, face suddenly red. “Boys can’t get married, Takeru.”

Takeru rolls his eyes. (That particular habit he picked up from Iwaizumi.) “Coulda fooled me.”

*

Iwaizumi is going through Oikawa’s glovebox, searching for a tire gauge. He couldn’t care less if Oikawa’s car breaks down because the idiot is too scatterbrained to remember something as trivial as checking air pressure, but like hell is Iwaizumi going to be stuck on the side of the road with him.

Instead, stuffed among napkins, straw papers, and ticket stubs from the midnight premiere of that awful sci-fi film Oikawa insisted they see, he finds pamphlets. A whole rainbow of them: for Tohoku, for Todai, foreign programs in America, one written in Spanish with a little volleyball logo and the Argentina flag printed along the back.

“Iwa-chan,” Oikawa says from his spot outside where he’s filling up the tank. “Toss me my wallet, will you?”

Iwaizumi shoves everything back inside and grabs Oikawa’s wallet instead. Later, when they’re on the road, another trip to anywhere, Oikawa asks if he ever found the tire gauge. Iwaizumi grunts in reply and turns up the volume of the radio.

*

It’s a Saturday when they play their final match as teammates. For the first time, there is no drive.

*

Iwaizumi isn’t surprised when he finds Oikawa’s car in the parking lot of the Sendai Gymnasium the next morning or when he finds Oikawa in the bleachers, scowling at both teams.

When Karasuno scores its final point, Oikawa shoots up and announces it's time to go home. Iwaizumi doesn’t miss the way Oikawa’s body is vibrating with nervous energy, or the way his fist clenches too tight in the fabric of Iwaizumi’s jacket. He allows himself to be pushed out to the doors to the familiar car in the front lot.

“You wanna talk about it?” Iwaizumi says.

Oikawa’s silence is answer enough.

They ride in uncomfortable silence, all the words neither of them are willing to say stacked up on the center console between them. They reach the crossroads of their cul-de-sac. Oikawa glances at the rear view mirror, at Iwaizumi in the passenger seat, at the turn that will take them home. He drives straight ahead. Iwaizumi watches the way his knuckles grow white around the steering wheel. The fifth time that Oikawa takes yet another winding turn that won't lead them home, Iwaizumi finally speaks.

“Pull over.”

Oikawa’s hands tremble on the wheel.

“Idiot, you’re in no state to drive. Pull over.”

Oikawa’s breath hitches, but he obeys. Slowly the car rolls to a stop under the canopy of a tree. The hum of the engine cuts off, replaced with the chirping of cicadas outside and the soft hitching of Oikawa’s breath.

“Sorry,” Oikawa says. Iwaizumi knows he's not talking about the driving. He waits. When Oikawa offers no more, he sighs and unbuckles his seatbelt.

“Get out,” Iwaizumi says.

Oikawa snaps his head to stare at him, and Iwaizumi sees the tears gathered at the corners of his eyes.

“Get out,” Iwaizumi repeats. Oikawa digs his nails into the leather of the steering wheel - a nervous tell - and then slowly opens the car door. As soon as he gets out, Iwaizumi slides over the center console into the driver’s seat and nods over to his now vacant side of the car. “Hurry up,” he says.

Oikawa scrambles around the car and into the passenger seat. As soon as his seatbelt is buckled, Iwaizumi revs the engine and peels out.

“Iwa-chan can drive?” Oikawa murmurs.

“Surprised there's something about me you don't know?” Iwaizumi asks.

 _Yes_ , is the unspoken answer.

*

By the time they get back, Oikawa is asleep in the passenger's seat. It’s the most peaceful he’s looked in weeks.

Iwaizumi doesn’t have the heart to wake him. He ends up carrying him all the way to his bed.

*

Hanamaki and Matsukawa convince Oikawa to drive them to a festival two towns over. (It doesn’t take much convincing, Iwaizumi thinks. The knowledge that their time together is growing shorter weighs down heavy and silent, and they grab easily at the chance for another adventure, never knowing which one will be the last.)

“I don’t see why the shortest one out of us gets shotgun,” Hanamaki gripes from the backseat, knees practically up to his chest. Oikawa’s car, though nice and modern, isn’t really made to fit four boys of their stature.

“Iwa-chan privileges,” Matsukawa drawls from the spot where he’s folded up next to him.

Iwaizumi rolls his eyes at them in the rearview. “More like payback.”

“Payback? For what?”

“For putting up with your shitty personalities.”

Oikawa blows a raspberry at him over the center console.

*

The first order of business when they arrive is, of course, to buy so much food their stomachs feel like they might burst.

“Think I could be a patisserie chef?” Hanamaki asks as they munch on their spoils and watch a man at one of the food stalls flip taiyaki cakes on a hot griddle.

Iwaizumi chews on his chicken and hums. Last time they’d talked, Hanamaki had been thinking of going into marketing, the time before that, graphic design. “That what you want to do?” he asks.

Hanamaki shrugs and gnaws on a dango stick “Who knows.”

Matsukawa nods. “Kind of messed up we’re supposed to decide what we want to do for the rest of our lives.” 

Hanamaki snickers. “Mattsun can’t even commit to what he wants for lunch most days.”

“Excuse you, lunch is a way more important decision.” Matsukawa says, stealing one of the dough balls off Hanamaki’s bamboo stick and popping it in his own mouth.

“I think I’m sticking around here for a while, though, whatever I end up doing.”

Matsukawa hums. “Yeah. Family and stuff.”

“What about you, captain? Leaving us all behind for Tokyo?” Hanamaki asks. He doesn’t seem to notice the way Oikawa has gone still and silent next to them.

“Only if we’re lucky,” Matsukawa snorts.

Iwaizumi waits for Oikawa to bring it up, the pamphlets hidden inside his glove compartment. He says nothing. “I think his plan is still to get abducted by aliens,” Iwaizumi says, to fill the awkward silence.

They laugh at that, and Oikawa cracks a grateful smile. Iwaizumi isn’t sure what it is he’s grateful for.

*

Hanamaki and Matsukawa get distracted by some dumb shooting game after that and then they’re lost in the crowd of lights and noise. Iwaizumi and Oikawa are left on their own.

Oikawa still gets as excited as he did when they were kids, tripping over too big yukata and rushing to find the perfect spot for fireworks. He had grabbed Iwaizumi’s hand then too, like he does now, dragging him through the crowd and lights and sound to the banister of the bridge.

It’s packed, but they squeeze in place, shoulder to shoulder as the last of the sunset fades. Oikawa’s hand is still in his.

“Iwa-chan, look!” He cries as the first burst of light paints the sky a brilliant red. Iwaizumi can’t be bothered to tear his gaze away from the lights in Oikawa’s eyes, the way his lips part in wonder. For all the people around them, in that moment, it feels like Oikawa is the only other person in the world.

 _I want to kiss him_ , Iwaizumi realizes. 

The thought is less world-wracking than it should be, an easy fact of the universe: the grass is green, the sky is blue, and Iwaizumi wants to kiss Oikawa.

It’d be so easy. Oikawa is there and warm and beautiful and so, so close. The explosions above paint his face pink then blue then beautiful violet, and Iwaizumi remembers every summer they spent together watching fireworks. He remembers every late night sprawled out in Iwaizumi’s living room, every afternoon catching bugs in the backyard, every morning they walked to school together. He remembers every volleyball match, the victories and the heart wrenching defeats, Oikawa’s hand solid on his back, a knowing constant. He remembers their drives, the warmth of Oikawa’s body as he falls asleep on Iwaizumi’s shoulder, the comfort of their seemingly endless Saturday nights.

He remembers the papers hidden away in the glovebox, Oikawa’s silence, the inescapable threat of graduation.

Another spark goes off, lighting Oikawa up brilliant and bright and further away than Iwaizumi will ever be able to reach.

He turns his gaze away to watch the fireworks instead.

*

The drive home is quiet, Hanamaki and Matsukawa passed out in the backseat.

Iwaizumi sits in the passenger seat, a thousand words dying in his throat, and watches the meter markers blur past.

*

The next weekend Oikawa pulls up into his driveway like the world wasn’t flipped on its axis five days ago. He lays on the horn until Iwaizumi slams through the front door and reminds him that _we have neighbors, you asshole_.

Oikawa just smiles up at him through his lashes (and there goes the world on its axis again) and tells him to get in. Iwaizumi doesn’t remember agreeing, but suddenly he’s in the car, listening to Oikawa’s shitty music obsession of the week and watching houses pass. Oikawa’s hand grazes his as he shifts gears, and Iwaizumi lets himself feel the simmering warmth of his heart. It’s their last Saturday night as dumb high schoolers. He’ll hold onto it while it lasts.

*

Iwaizumi has no idea where they’re going until they pull up to a house with all the lights on, some kids he thinks he recognizes smoking on the porch, bass thrumming all the way out to their parking spot across the street.

“No,” he says.

“Iwa-chan,” Oikawa wheedles. “It’s our last Saturday as high schoolers. We need to do something wild - let our inhibitions go and be crazy teenagers for once!”

“I wasn’t aware you had inhibitions,” Iwaizumi says.

“Rude,” Oikawa says. He leans over the console to stare up at Iwaizumi through thick eyelashes, eyes wide and baleful. “Please, Iwa-chan?” He murmurs, all soft and sweet, and Iwaizumi hates himself for how easily he gives in to this boy.

“It won’t be any fun without my trusted vice captain by my side.”

“Ex vice captain,” Iwaizumi corrects. Oikawa pouts, fluttering his eyelashes at him.

“Fine,” He relents. If he doesn’t go, Oikawa will just make dumb decisions on his own, Iwaizumi reasons with himself. At least this way, he can keep an eye on him.

“Woohoo!” Oikawa chirps, pecking Iwaizumi on the cheek. Iwaizumi feels his face heat up, the dull ache in his chest from the night at the festival suddenly back at full force. Iwaizumi wonders if it ever really went away in the first place.

*

For the first time since he got it, Oikawa does indeed end up making out with a girl in his car that night.

Iwaizumi isn't sure why it pisses him off so much. 

(That’s a lie. He knows exactly why.)

(He wishes he didn’t.)

Oikawa rolls around with some faceless girl in his backseat and Iwaizumi turns right back around and stalks back into the house blaring music so loud he feels it under his skin. A red solo cup makes its way into his hand and he chugs it without checking to see what it is. After ten years spend cleaning up Oikawa’s messes, he figures he’s entitled to some dumb choices of his own.

*

It’s past two am when Iwaizumi stumbles onto the porch with his shirt rumpled and some nameless girl’s lip gloss staining the collar.

Oikawa is waiting for him.

“What’re you still here for?” Iwaizumi asks. He’s slurring. He doesn't like it. “Thought you'd be off with your new girlfriend.”

Oikawa smiles. It looks… off, somehow, but Iwaizumi’s head is all sluggish and woozy and he can't figure out what's wrong.

“Like I could ever abandon my Iwa-chan,” Oikawa hums.

Iwaizumi snorts. “‘cept when you leave the country right?”

Oikawa freezes. “Who told you?” 

“No one had to tell me, moron, I saw the damn papers in your glovebox.”

Iwaizumi’s called Oikawa a moron a hundred - a thousand - times over the course of their lives together, but it’s never been like this, never full of malice and spite. It sounds wrong like this, and Iwaizumi knows that distantly, somewhere in the back of his mind. 

“Were you ever gonna tell me, or were you just gonna go, huh? Just gonna- leave me?” There’s a voice inside Iwaizumi’s head that's screaming at him, yelling, begging. _This is not the time_ , it says, _not like this_. It's loud and it makes his head ache. He ignores it.

“It’s not like that,” Oikawa insists. “I swear it’s not. It’s just- I just-”

“What? Didn't want to make me feel bad? Didn’t want to remind me how I’m not good enough?” There are tears rolling down his face, but they do nothing to quell the fire rising in his stomach. “Not good enough for nationals, not good enough for Tokyo, not good enough for you!” 

Oikawa, for all easy words and silver tongue, just stands there. “Iwa-chan…”

“Don't call me that!” Iwaizumi snaps. “Stupid nickname, stupid game, stupid-”

The anger is his gut boils over and suddenly he’s bent over, puking into the hedges of some stranger's yard while too loud bass blares from inside.

“Come on,” Oikawa says, once Iwaizumi sits up again, and suddenly he’s so tired and everything is so loud and his head hurts and his eyes sting and he just wants to be -

“Come on,” Oikawa murmurs again. “Let’s get you home.”

Oikawa somehow manages to get him in the car. Iwaizumi doesn’t remember the drive at all.

*

Iwaizumi wakes up the next morning in Oikawa’s bed to the smell of natto and rice.

He stumbles down the hallway feeling like someone’s drilling on the inside of his skull to find Oikawa bent over the stove, tongue sticking out in concentration as he pokes at the eggs on the skillet.

Oikawa is always incredibly good at anything he sets his mind to. Unfortunately, he never set his mind on learning to cook. ( _“That’s what I have Iwa-chan for,” he’d said once._ ) The eggs on the stove burn.

“You gotta cook ‘em for a longer time at a lower heat,” Iwaizumi says and tries to feel like he’s not dying.

Oikawa whips around to face him, taking the eggs with him. They fly off the skillet and smack into the wall, sliding to the floor in a sad, gooey heep.

“Iwa-chan, you’re awake!” He cries. At Iwaizumi’s groan, he cringes. “Sorry,” he whispers.

“S’not your fault I drank way too much last night,” Iwaizumi says. 

Oikawa hands him a glass of water and an aspirin, and Iwaizumi could kiss him.

He remembers suddenly, kissing a girl with a waist that was too small and hair that was too long and lip gloss that tasted all wrong.

“Thanks,” he says.

Oikawa is giving him the same tight-lipped smile as last night, eyes tired and face gaunt. Iwaizumi couldn't place it last right, but now he sees it.

Oikawa is terrified.

“Argentina, huh?”

“I was gonna tell you,” Oikawa says. “Just not- I was going to-”

“Wait?”

Oikawa nods and fiddles nervously with his thumb and pinkie finger. It’s a nervous tell, something he does before important matches or when he’s talking to his father. It’s never something he’s done with Iwaizumi.

“I shouldn't have yelled,” Iwaizumi says with a sigh. “I’m not mad.”

Oikawa snorts. “You literally got so mad you threw up on someone’s lawn.”

Iwaizumi grimaces. The stale taste of vomit lingers in his mouth, and he needs to brush his teeth, like, yesterday. 

“I’m not mad that you’re going to Argentina. You’ve worked hard for it. Shit, you work harder than anyone else I’ve met. I just wished you’d have told me.”

“Telling you would have made it real.”

“It’s already real, idiot. Telling me doesn’t change it.”

“But it would have made it final.”

“Why aren’t you happy about this?” Iwaizumi asks.

“Why are you?”

“Because it’s your dream,” he says. Oikawa has been working towards this for years - for as long as either of them has known how to spike a ball over the net. Iwaizumi thinks about every practice they’ve sweat through, every win they’ve celebrated, every loss that made them stronger.

Iwaizumi doesn’t think of the way Oikawa’s face had looked, lit up by the bright burst of fireworks, or the glow of the drive in, or the orange spill of the streetlamps. He doesn’t think of the hum or the car motor, or the smell of the seats, or the hours they’ve shared behind the dashboard. Hours he never bothered to count, because it never occurred they might be numbered.

He doesn’t think of any of these things. He can’t afford to. “I’m proud of you,” he says instead.

“Thanks,” Oikawa bites his lip. Maybe there are things he can’t afford to think about either. 

*

Oikawa’s flight leaves in the morning. Iwaizumi helps him load suitcases into his car. It’s odd, to watch a person pack up their whole life into neat little bundles, toss away any of the pieces that don’t fit. Iwaizumi can’t help but feel like he’s one of those pieces.

“Have time for one more drive?” he asks.

Oikawa meets his gaze. On the dashboard, Scully waits patiently. “Yeah, I’d like that.”

*

The sun is already sinking low in the sky by the time they set out. Oikawa drives while Iwaizumi tells him where to turn. Anyone else would question when they vere off the main road into winding back roads and then onto uneven dirt paths, but Oikawa has always trusted Iwaizumi beyond all doubt.

By the time they reach the open field at the top of the trail, it’s dark. Oikawa sends him a questioning glance over the center console. Iwaizumi leans over and kills the engine.

“C’mon,” he says, shouldering open the door. 

This far out from the city, the screech of trains and sound of traffic is replaced with the thrum of cicadas, the rustle of wind in the trees, the distant call of birds. Here, it’s only stars overhead to light their way in the chill of the night.

“Iwa-chan, give me your sweater,” Oikawa whines. At Iwaizumi’s unimpressed eyebrow raise, he pouts. “I’m cold.” He crosses his arms and gives an exaggerated shiver for good measure.

“How many times have I told you to keep an extra jacket in here?” Iwaizumi huffs. But even as he rolls his eyes, he’s undoing the buttons and shrugging it off. “Here,” he says as he shoves the sweater in Oikawa’s face. “You better not complain for the rest of the night.”

Iwaizumi grunts and turns away so he doesn’t have to see the way Oikawa smiles and burrows his face in the lapel, like he’s trying to breath Iwaizumi in. He leans against the hood of the car and checks the time on his phone. Soon.

“So did you drag me up here to murder me?” Oikawa asks, sliding up beside him. 

“Yup. Hid a shovel in your trunk.”

Oikawa nods sagely. “Give Takeru my love.”

“I’m his favorite uncle anyways.”

Oikawa squacks in offense - of course _that’s_ the bit that upsets him - and rears back to slap him. Iwaizumi catches his wrist and holds it still. For a moment, the chill slips away and heat slides under his skin. Oikawa freezes, caught.

For a moment, Iwaizumi thinks they might -- might --

A sudden burst of light shoots across the sky, lightning fast. Another streak of light, then another, until the sky is lit up with them.

“Is this- did you-” Oikawa stammers. 

“Meteor shower,” Iwaizumi manages. His hand is still wrapped around Oikawa’s wrist. He stares at it and not the stars. There will always be stars, is the thing. There’s only one Oikawa.

Oikawa is still looking at the night sky, jaw dropped, when his hand twists in Iwaizumi’s grip. This is it, he thinks, the last time -

Oikawa twines their fingers together. “Do you know what makes a shooting star?” he asks. “Meteors try to pass through our atmosphere and burn themselves up in the process.”

Iwaizumi’s hand feets too hot, like he’s the one burning through the stratosphere.

“What if I burn up too?” Oikawa asks. “What if I get there and…”

So many possible ends to that sentence. _And I don’t mesh with the players? And I can’t learn the language? And I push too far too fast and this time there’s no one to catch me when I fall?_

“What if I disappoint you?” he asks.

“Hey.” Iwaizumi tugs Oikawa’s hand so he has to look at him and not the sky above. “You could never disappoint me. If you go to Argentina. If you stay here. If you decide to become an accountant. As long as you’re doing what you want to do, I’ll still be proud as hell, okay?”

“What if I want two things at the same time? What if I can’t have them both?”

Oikawa’s gaze is so fierce. Iwaizumi wants to look away. Iwaizumi wants to never look away.

“I’d stay,” Oikawa says. Iwaizumi feels the breath drop out of his lungs. Oikawa surges bravely onwards, like he always has. “If you asked me to, I’d stay.”

Iwaizumi imagines it: Oikawa, here. Oikawa, with him. Oikawa, slowly flickering out like a flame that’s been snuffed.

“I couldn’t,” he says.

Oikawa’s hand squeezes his. “I know. Maybe that’s why. Because I know you wouldn’t.”

Iwaizumi’s throat is dry. His palm is sweaty under Oikawa’s touch. He feels hot, even in the chill of the night.

“Stay,” he asks. “Just tonight.”

Oikawa’s suitcases are packed, his passport stowed. In the morning, he’ll go. In the morning, there will be no more drives. In the morning, there will be no more them. But maybe tonight --

Maybe it will be enough. To have seen a shooting star and held it close before it flew away. 

Oikawa’s fingers are warm where they slide against his, a new day’s sun dawning between their palms.

“Just tonight,” he says.

They sit, sharing the warmth of the hood, the warmth of each other. Tomorrow will bring new roads for both of them. Tonight, they have the stars.

  
  
  


**Author's Note:**

> This is actually the first hq fic I started writing, way back in S1. It sat in my drafts a long time - I didn't start poking at it again until the final manga chapter. I'm not sure this is the ending I would have given it back when I started writing, but that's the nice thing about stories: they can grow with you. 
> 
> Thank you to Furudate and the friends I made in this fandom for a wonderful five years. <3


End file.
